March 01, 2019
From the pages of Issue Two: Mainsplaining Mansplained, by Andrew Pridgen
I figured out which modern artists to like based on hours of Netflix research. I drive a Tesla and you know this without ever having to ride in a car with me. I say things like, “This Patagonia vest warms me on the outside and on the inside” and then I list off all the socially conscious things that Yvon has done.
I’ve got gold club status. I’ll mention that in line at the terminal gate loud enough for at least a dozen people to hear me. I am in an elevator chortling as I thumb through pictures of a bunch of my bros and the last time we got together in Austin. If you look me up on LinkedIn you will see that among my many, many professional achievements—the only ones you really need to know about are how devoted a husband and proud a father I am. You like these socks? Yeah, they draw attention. Let me tell you about where I got them.
For the past 27 months I’ve started all my dates by saying that in these confusing times, passion is a luxury and relationships are the result of becoming the person our parents fucked us up to be. That one plays all day. Fairways and greens.
Wanna talk podcasts? I’m going pretend the ones I just read about in the New Yorker are the same ones that I listen to regularly. You probably haven’t heard of any of them and you probably don’t read the New Yorker.
I was recently in Asheville and had a piece of fried chicken shaped like a West Highland Terrier. If you followed me, you’d know this.
When we’re talking, I may bother once in awhile to listen to you and repeat the same thing back, only much, much longer, and maybe with something I think is a joke at the end.
Example: “It’s not like Trump, his family, and his org have EVER been anything but self-dealing burn-it-down mastizations (<-- I’ll pronounce that like ‘masturbations’ with a ‘z’) of our worst collective self-image. But it was never going to be normal. Just like Chuck Todd’s goatee could never fix his face.”
While we’re at the bar getting to know each other, I’ll tie something to someone famous or wealthy who is obscure enough so you probably won’t know them. They might not even exist: “I’m moving on from Tequila to Mezcal but not the kind they have here. I know a guy. He was the distiller who started that one with Gerber and Clooney? You ever had that? Casamigos, or as he used to say, ‘house of billionaire friends.’”
I will always hold up a glass and say ‘Salud.’ Then I will turn and tell you it means, “To your health or just… health.”
I just started listening to Mitski and she definitely proves that longing is the most underrated emotion. It is, don’t you think?
So you know I’m a good one and mostly woke, I’ll mention gaslighting and what it does while I’m gaslighting you into a conversation about donor-advised funds.
I’ll start every fourth sentence with the word “granted” and then contradict myself and then fake apologize for it.
Let me tell you about the job I’m leaving in June to go do my own startup.
“The startup,” you ask? (You didn’t.) It’s kind of like a monthly subscription box for people with prosthetics, so they can get that fresh look. Also, I’m doing it for the troops. See, I had this buddy in high school…
Coachella? Oh fuck yes. No on the fanny pack this year. Jackson Hole? Absolutely. I can slay Corbet’s all day. Hucked it a time or two with Chelsea Clinton’s husband. (We worked at the same hedge fund before I grew a conscious. He grew a goatee.)
Have I told you I know the one of the producers on High Maintenance and one of the vignettes was based on a time I was back in Brooklyn and we were out—stoned—looking for the best artisanal ice cream and we saw Andy Samberg and his wife what’s-her-name Newsom? And she’s a genius musician, and nothing happened, but we kept running across the same lost dog and I said, “maybe we’re the ones who are lost” and supposedly that line was in but got cut from the show. You have an HBO login, right?
Yeah, that’s my vape pen. Yeah, that’s my money clip. Yeah that’s my gold-tooth grill that I think is funny. Want to try it on? Yeah, I’ve heard of that place, it’s my spot. Sometimes they have DJs in there, like legit ones, or ones on the come-up who do sets there. It’s a little played now, smelly vintage furniture, a brick wall and Brixton-wearing poseur bros with sleeve tats and forearm burns. Yeah, karaoke on Saturday before noon and Africa used to be my jam, but since Weezer got ahold of it ...it’s been more an Against All Odds version, but I re-imagine it so it sounds like if Minor Threat did it.
Totally, no, I totally get more than three-quarters hard when I’m wearing a condom. Just kidding, I don’t wear condoms. They make my throat swell up.
Do you know a good tattoo artist in Chicago? Because I’ve got a bachelorette—yeah, a bachelorette—there in a month. She’s queer and an ex and I’m friends with most of my exes. Tell me about your exes so I can make fun of them in a way that seems casual and not at all insecure or condescending.
Let me tell you that Bruce Willis was my age when he guest-starred on Friends. And he still had it. His hair anyway, no?
I’m thinking of a travel app called Travelina. The .io is available. I have an angel investor. It shows safe spots for women who are abroad in real time as well as trusted contacts in every town.
I want to make sure you know all about the feelings I have re: Sufjan post-Call Me By Your Name and also why I’m back to drinking just pilsners.
I’m chartering a flight to Hana. Yeah, the landing strip George Harrison used to use. You haven’t had fresh banana bread till you’ve had it after a morning riding a perfect left. My favorite Tabata guy is there. We can use his guest house. Airbnb is fascist and I’ve got some dope .gifs that show you how come. I’ve been on this no-sex journey along with Keto but I’m thinking of ditching both. I’ll tell you about it on the way.